TWO

TWO

EIGHT TWENTY. THE LAST of the two kids, Lincoln, rides off on his bike with a perfunctory Bye-love-you on his way to school, three blocks away. By then, I've already read three texts from David, out looking for our dog, Lulu: Not by Custers (the Custers have three Weimaraners whom Lulu loves), What a fucked up morning (true enough), and On way to forest preserve .

The forest preserve — God help Lulu if she made it that far. She never has. She's been known to chase deer, who retreat to the preserve, but Lulu usually loses interest after they outrun her.

Lulu won't know how to get back from the forest preserve, and she'll get lost within it. It's a good three square miles of woods, trails, streams, deer, to say nothing of the coyotes. Lulu, a harmless puppy, wouldn't stand a chance against a coyote.

Mr. Walters, the third-grade teacher three blocks away, lost a puppy to a coyote. He now carries a golf club around while he walks his new dog, always on a leash.

I shudder away that thought and head in the opposite direction of David, toward the town square, texting my "mom chain" to be on the lookout for Lulu, attaching a photo for the few of them who wouldn't recognize her. Twenty-two strong, that chain of mothers covers all four directions from our house, on Cedar Lane.

And then I'm off on foot through the neighborhood, zigzagging between front yards and backyards, crunching over the yellow and burnt-orange leaves that dance across the yards in the wind, angling around tombstones and inflatable ghosts and witches and skeletons, pumpkins with evil grins and celebrity faces. Always calling, "Lulu, want a treat?" so she won't think she's in trouble and hide from me, as she's prone to do.

You're not supposed to reward a dog's bad behavior, but I'm past rules. I just want her back. Lulu has been gone a solid hour now. At this point, the odds are not good for a dog. But I stiff-arm that mounting sense of panic.

My mom chain texts back like a hail of gunfire, each vibration bringing me hope:

Oh no! Will be on lookout

Haven't seen her but will look!!

Poor Lulu!

Eight thirty. "Nothing," David tells me by phone, out of breath, jogging through the Hemingway Forest Preserve. "How the hell did she get out? The gate was closed. No way she jumps that fence. We built it high enough a deer couldn't jump it."

"I have no idea."

"Maybe the gnomes who moved Grace's lunch box and our coffeepot took Lulu for a walk."

Eight forty. I've hit downtown — the Square, as we call it, remade in cobblestone a few years ago to preserve the old-fashioned small-town theme, as if a town of thirty-six thousand in central Illinois needed that reminder. Some of the stores have played along, with their old-fashioned awnings, retro signage, and brick facades.

In the center of the square is a large statue of our town's founder, a fur trader named Abner Hemingway, there to disappoint any visitors who have a certain literary figure in mind when they detour off I-57 for a bite to eat or an overnight stay. David always quips that we should change our motto from "Small-town charm" to "Sorry, not that guy." He estimates that his pub, less than a mile off the interstate, makes around half its annual revenue on a misimpression.

Could Lulu have made it this far? With the passage of more than sixty minutes now, she could have gone in any direction. She could be in the preserve, up by the school, dodging traffic on 1st Street — should I get in my Nissan and drive around to cover more ground?

The smell of fresh croissants from Pilsner's Delights. My stomach would ordinarily growl were it not churning in knots. I'm wasting my time. I'm walking around the Square, checking behind and around the mostly quiet storefronts, on the off chance that my dog has made it this far, which seems like such a long shot.

Still, I do it. The general store, no. The barbershop, no. Not by the men's store or the ice cream parlor. The pharmacy, jeweler, karate studio, diner, print shop, sporting-goods store, antiques shop, credit union, Thai restaurant, the other antiques shop, the women's boutique —

Five minutes to nine. I have court at nine thirty. David already has suppliers waiting for him at the pub. We're running out of time before that moment — that dreaded, ugly moment of resignation — when we throw up our hands and decide to stop searching, to go to work and resort to putting up signs all over town. I already know the outcome if it comes to that. We'll never see that sweet little face again.

"Lost your dog?"

I turn and see a man with red hair, dressed in workout clothes, wearing sunglasses, sitting on one of the benches with a paper cup of coffee in hand. I don't recognize him, but the town's just big enough, thank God, that not everyone knows everyone. Someone like me, born and raised here, probably knows almost everyone in the street. But not this guy. He's probably a visitor making a stopover on his way to Memphis or Florida, staying at Hemingway's Inn, over on Iroquois, thinking there will be memorabilia from Ernest himself (there is) and rooms named with cheesy references to For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises (there are).

"She's a Cavalier King Charles," I tell him. "Twenty pounds, white with big brown spots."

"Haven't seen her, but I'll keep a lookout."

"Her tag has my phone number."

"Sure thing. I wouldn't worry. She'll probably find her way back home. It'll be like she never left." He gives me a big toothy smile before getting up and walking away.

Like she never left? I highly doubt that, strange redheaded guy. But he doesn't know Lulu. She could get lost inside a car. There is zero-point-zero chance Lulu will come back on her own. Either we find her or someone else does and calls us.

Or she's lost forever.

At nine, I shake my head. I have to head home, get in my car, and drive to court.

"Where are you, sweet girl?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "I won't give up looking. I promise."